


Merry & Bright

by winterkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Mistletoe, Pajamas & Sleepwear, Sharing a Bed, Sledding, a grab bag of tropes, but it's festive!!!, holiday fluff, now featuring my childhood Christmas traditions with a vaguely Westerosi flavor, that I used ALL OF, this is extremely silly and cliche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28299843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: Brienne wasn’t present for the conversation between her father and Galladon, but she’s pretty sure she can imagine it. Galladon probably said something like, “Don’t get too excited, Dad, but Brienne mentioned bringing a friend for Sevenmas.”Galladon has never been one for details, and her father absolutely hears whatever he likes best.The horror of Brienne’s mistake dawns on her the moment her father greets Jaime and her at the front door. He looks so, so pleased when he says, “I got your room all ready for both of you!”
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 87
Kudos: 311
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange Stocking Stuffers 2020





	Merry & Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EllisJay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllisJay/gifts), [crescenthour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescenthour/gifts), [sdwolfpup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdwolfpup/gifts), [tall_wolf_of_tarth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tall_wolf_of_tarth/gifts), [NaomiGnome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaomiGnome/gifts), [BananaChef](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaChef/gifts).



> This was beta read super quick by my lovely husband, so all remaining mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy this very, _very_ silly holiday fic!

Brienne wasn’t present for the conversation between her father and Galladon, but she’s pretty sure she can imagine it. Galladon probably said something like, “Don’t get too excited, Dad, but Brienne mentioned bringing a friend for Sevenmas.”

The problem is two-fold--Galladon has never been one for details, and her father absolutely hears whatever he likes best. Her father, who’s desperate for grandchildren in a way that would make Brienne laugh if it wasn’t directed at her, heard the words “friend” and “home for Sevenmas,” and the rest of the details flowed in one ear and out the other.

It’s partially Brienne’s fault, too; she got busier as the holidays grew closer, and only spoke with her father to confirm that she could bring a guest.

“Sure, honey,” her dad said, “I’d love to meet your _friend.”_

Brienne called him on her lunch break, and her brain was focused on at least three tasks at once. She completely missed the way her father emphasized the word _friend,_ like he was holding up air quotes, like she was a teenager, and he didn’t want to admit she was _kissing_ _boys._

The horror of Brienne’s mistake dawns on her the moment her father greets Jaime and her at the front door. He looks so, _so_ pleased when he says, “I got your room all ready for both of you!”

* * *

After a round of awkwardly polite introductions, Jaime offers to carry both their suitcases up the stairs to Brienne’s room. Her room is virtually unchanged from when she was sixteen. Jaime is going to see it before she can laugh awkwardly and explain all the magazine pin-ups of Arthur Dayne on the walls.

“Be careful,” she says, “and I can get my own.”

Jaime waves her off, so Brienne watches for any sign he’s in pain as he goes up the stairs with one suitcase in each hand. 

When they first met at the fancy grocery store she sometimes ventures to in King’s Landing, Jaime’s wrist was in a cast. He was in a car accident on the freeway outside the city. She watched him struggle to separate, one-handed, a too-large bunch of bananas. Jaime had snubbed her offer to help, and Brienne had scolded him. He apologized, and somehow, here they were a year later, unlikely but close friends.

Her father hugs her a second time and whispers, “Jaime seems like a gentleman.”

Brienne’s still trying to figure out how to explain that Jaime isn’t, and never has been, her boyfriend. It also seems like a bad time to introduce what an ass Jaime can be when he puts his mind to it. Despite his jackassery, Brienne has known for several months that she’d be _absolutely_ thrilled if Jaime was her boyfriend.

“He...he has his moments,” Brienne says instead, patting her father on the back. He’s probably naming his grandchildren already. The girl will be Alysane after her grandmother. “I...I’m gonna go check on him.”

Behind her, Galladon mouths _I’m sorry_ from the doorway to the living room.

Brienne mouths back _You will be._

* * *

Jaime places both their suitcases at the end of the bed. His right hand throbs a bit, but he shakes it off. Brienne’s suitcase is a sensible navy blue with a hard shell, and he is some overpriced designer brand that isn’t holding up as well as it ought for the price.

He couldn’t afford to buy it again now, anyway.

Brienne's invitation to come to Tarth for Sevenmas had come at just the right moment. She had an almost preternatural sense of knowing when he could use a little boost. Jaime was moping, imagining spending the holidays alone in his apartment in King’s Landing. 

Tyrion decided to travel somewhere warm with his girlfriend _du jour._ Since Jaime quit working for his father, going home to Casterly Rock wasn’t an option. Employment was family loyalty, and when Jaime lost one he lost both. Last year, before he met Brienne, he drank with Tyrion on Sevenmas Eve and bitched about their shitty family. Well, Jaime got tipsy, and Tyrion got totally shitfaced.

It wasn’t fun _or_ festive.

When he was sober enough to drive home, he’d gotten hit by a fucking drunk driver and broken his wrist. Lots of physical therapy and meeting Brienne later, this year was already better.

Brienne’s room is girlier than he imagined--faded floral wallpaper and a light blue bedspread with rose accents. There are things from her childhood scattered around--a soccer ball (Brienne broke her ankle playing in middle school) and some stuffed animals and books. The thing Jaime notices the most is the magazine pinups of teen-hearthrob-turned-rock-star Arthur Dayne pinned to her walls.

The most concerning, _by far,_ is the lifesize cardboard cutout.

The door opens, and Jaime turns to see Brienne holding the doorknob.

“So,” Jaime grins, “I see you, too, had a crush on Arthur Dayne.”

“...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s hard to deny your teenage lust when his life-size effigy is in the corner.”

She reddens, “His later solo albums were quite musically complex.”

“You would be one of _those_ fans who go on about the music,” Jaime laughs, “You’re a decade later than me; I was listening during his teen idol phase.”

Brienne walks over the cardboard cutout and stares at it, “Did you hang him on your wall?”

“Does Tywin Lannister seem the type to allow that?”

“Fair point. Did you hide under the blankets at night and practice kissing on the magazine spreads?”

Now _that’s_ a mental image. “Did you, Brienne?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

Wanting to change the subject before Brienne starts asking even more mortifying questions, Jaime says, “So...your father thinks we’re dating?”

“I...yes? I--I just said I was bringing a friend, but Galladon--” Brienne’s face is so red it’s probably approaching critical mass.

He waves his hands again, “It’s fine, Brienne, unless you’ve got a spare room, we’ll be close friends for the next few nights.”

Jaime quite likes the idea, but he quite likes Brienne.

* * *

Brienne’s popping an obscene amount of popcorn in a soup pot, and Jaime’s confused. Meanwhile, Galladon is dumping two bags of cranberries into a bowl.

Their father, who Jaime now knows is named Selwyn, comes into the kitchen and says, “I ordered the pizzas.”

Jaime, trying to piece these activities together into some semblance of comprehension, realizes the futility. “What...are we doing here?”

“Making garland,” Galladon says, “For the tree.”

“...Garland,” Jaime repeats, “...For the tree?”

The tree, a seven-foot-tall living, breathing fur tree, is already festooned in ornaments and twinkle lights. All the Sevenmas trees at Casterly Rock were themed and curated by designers his father hired. One year, there’d been a tree of each of the Seven spread out across the estate. 

The Tarth tree doesn’t match--there’s handmade ornaments from when Brienne and Galladon were children and a chaotic mishmash of other things.

Brienne comes up to Jaime and puts her hand on his arm, “We string the garland last. I’m not sure why.”

He looks away from the tree and into Brienne’s eyes; the lights reflect in them. The tree is beautiful, but Jaime likes Brienne's eyes more.

“The tree trimming was your mom’s thing,” Selwyn says, “It’s something she did as a kid, so we kept doing it.”

“I didn’t know that,” Brienne smiles softly, “I like it even more now.”

“I think we added the pizza part, though,” Galladon says.

Jaime keeps it to himself that he’s never been told a single thing his mother enjoyed.

The pizzas arrive, and they sit on the couch and use needles and thread to string cranberry and popcorn into garland. It might be the strangest thing Jaime’s ever done, but there’s a homeyness to it that’s totally foreign to him. Brienne puts on some cheesy Christmas movie in the background, and Jaime stabs himself with the needle at least three times.

Selwyn is decking the tree with the first strands of Garland when he asks, “Do the Lannisters have any Sevenmas traditions, Jaime?” 

“Not..not really.” Jaime always thought his childhood was privileged, but there was nothing like this. “My father held big, intimidating parties that we had to attend.”

Brienne drapes a strand of garland around his neck, “Then I’m glad you’re joining ours.”

* * *

“Well,” Brienne says when they’re back in her room, “there’s still just the one bed.” 

It’s a double bed, and she never felt it was too small when she was a kid. Something tells Brienne that’s about to change tonight.

Jaime looks around her room again, “And there’s _still_ Arthur Dayne’s many, _many_ all-seeing eyes.”

“You make him sound like some sort of eldritch, omnipotent being.”

“I don’t even know what that means in this context.” Jaime smiles at her and waits for Brienne to explain herself; this is an old routine between them.

“It’s like...you know how when you’re little and your parents tell you the Crone is watching to see if you’re naughty or nice? And she sees all.”

“Duh. Every kid knows that.”

“It’s like that.”

Jaime shivers, “I...I hope Arthur Dayne isn’t all-seeing, or he’s seen some things I’d rather he not.”

“Please, Jaime,” Brienne giggles, “You’re far from the first teen to masturbate to--”

“Oh?” He gets closer to Brienne, grinning madly, _“Oh?_ Did proper, straightlaced Brienne Tarth--”

Regretting this entire conversation, Brienne throws her suitcase on her desk chair and gets her pajamas and toiletries. “I’m using the bathroom first.”

“Your house, your rules,” Jaime shrugs.

In the bathroom, Brienne lingers as long as seems reasonable brushing her teeth and putting on her moisturizer. Jaime goes in after her, and when they’ve both returned to her bedroom, the inevitable happens.

“I can take the floor,” Jaime says.

Brienne snorts, “And spend Sevenmas Eve complaining about your sore back?”

“...You don’t know that.”

“Except that I _do_ know that. If anyone is going to sleep on the floor, it should be me,” Brienne argues, “I’m _way_ younger.”

 _“Ugh,_ you don't have to put it like that.” 

Jaime gets dramatic sometimes about finding new gray hairs or wrinkles or his creaky joints. Brienne wants to tell him he almost _literally_ makes her mouth dry. It would stroke his ego, but it would also reveal how attracted she is to him.

“I’m just stating the truth on your driver’s license,” Brienne says instead.

“We’re adults; we can share.”

Brienne thinks it’s precisely _because_ they’re adults that they shouldn’t share, but she and Jaime end up back-to-back in her childhood bed anyway.

* * *

They _certainly_ don’t wake up back-to-back.

More like front-to-front. More like Brienne’s fingers, purely of their own traitorous volition, snuck their way into Jaime’s pajama bottoms. Only her thumb, the last warrior standing on the battlefield, is outside of the elastic. Thankfully, Jaime sleeps in underwear and, even asleep, Brienne has some propriety, or her hand would be _right_ against his (admittedly very nice) ass.

Doing his part to make waking up as awkward as possible, Jaime has his face against her chest, too close to Brienne’s breasts for her comfort. His golden curls are tickling her face. At least she wasn’t the only handsy one during the night--Jaime has one hand wormed under her shirt, hot against her lower back. Their legs are tangled together, just in case every other detail wasn’t incriminating enough. 

As she’d been trying to fall asleep the night before, Brienne was overcome with this giddy sort of energy. She felt like a teenage girl who’s crush had spoken to her during lunch break. Jaime was _so close_ she could feel the heat coming off his body.

Surprisingly, it didn’t take her _that_ long to fall asleep.

Brienne knows Jaime’s awake because he starts laughing, warm puffs of air against her sternum. She realizes where her hand is _still_ positioned and pulls it away like she’s touching a hot stove instead of Jaime’s (also hot) ass.

“Damn, Brienne,” he says, “If you wanted my ass that bad, all you had to do was ask.”

 _“Why_ would I want your ass?”

“Because it’s a good ass. You can do whatever you want to it.”

“I don’t want to do _anything_ to your ass!” Brienne doesn’t realize how loud her voice is until she hears laughing in the hall, and there’s a knock on the door.

Galladon says, “If you two are done, me and Dad are making breakfast.”

“C-Coming!” Brienne yells back.

Her brother’s footsteps fade as he goes down the stairs. She might be imagining it, but it feels like Jaime nestles a bit closer to her. “What’s your Sevenmas wish, Brienne?” 

_This, honestly._

“I--I don’t have one,” she lies, “I’m just happy to be here with everyone.”

“Including me?”

“Of course you, Jaime.”

“Just my ass, or the rest, too?”

* * *

After one of the most carb-heavy breakfasts of his life, Jaime stares at the pictures lining the mantle and hanging on the wall in the Tarth’s living room. They’re of Brienne and Galladon in various stages of childhood. There are a few school photos--yearbook shots and team sports, but there’s just as many candid shots. Some feature a blonde, freckled woman who has the same blue eyes as Brienne.

“That’s Mom,” Brienne reaches out and takes the picture frame off the mantle, “I’m in this photo, but I don’t remember it.”

“You look like you were still shitting in diapers, so I’d assume not.”

Brienne scrunches her nose, “Did you have to make it gross?”

“You know I do.”

She places the photo back on the mantle and picks up another, “Look at Galladon’s dorky hair.”

The hair is, in fact, quite dorky. 

“We don’t have any pictures like this at Casterly Rock. They’re all professional family portraits. We look very stiff.” Looking at Brienne’s life displayed across the fireplace feels a bit bittersweet.

“We should take one while we’re here, then.” Brienne puts pre-teen Galladon back down among the other photos. “It’s kinda childish, but do you wanna go sledding? There’s some fresh powder and a decent hill nearby.”

“I’ve...never been sledding,” he admits.

 _“How?_ You’re like...forty.”

“Not yet,” Jaime isn’t looking forward to that birthday, “And I just never have.”

“It’s not a Tarth Sevenmas without sledding.”

“Really?”

Brienne gives him a tiny smile, “I wish. We don’t usually have this much snow.”

* * *

The sledding hill is filled with kids wearing puffy snow gear that makes them look like marshmallows. Jaime didn’t bring anything like that, so Brienne lends him insulated leggings to wear under his jeans. 

“They’re warm,” Jaime says as they’re dragging their sleds to the hill, “Good call.”

Brienne’s cheeks are pink, but it might be just from the crisp air, “You don’t think it’s weird that my clothes fit you?”

“Nope.” Jaime decides not to say that sharing things makes him feel closer to Brienne. “I like it, actually.”

Sometimes, Brienne tilts her head to one side and looks at him like he’s an alien. This is one of those moments. They’re at the top of the hill, so Brienne drops the sled into the snow and doesn’t answer them.

Brienne adjusts her knit hat and tucks a stray strand of blonde hair that doesn’t reach her ponytail behind her ear, “You can go first,”

“Alone?”

“You’re not a little kid.”

“Ah, but I am a sledding novice.”

Since the first day he snapped at Brienne over the bunch of bananas at the grocery store, Jaime’s liked watching her defenses slowly thaw. Brienne’s kindness and gentleness were buried under a layer of rock. She looks a bit miffed, now, but after a few seconds, her face softens to a fond exasperation. It’s such a sweet expression.

“The sled holds two,” she sighs, “Front or back?”

 _Holding Brienne or being held._ Both sound delightful, but Jaime has to pick. “Back, I guess.”

The hill isn’t that steep, but the snow is packed down from the other sledders, so they pick up quite a bit of speed on their runs. Brienne is mostly silent, but Jaime laughs harder each time. Sometimes he grips the handles on the side of the sled, but other times he wraps his arms around Brienne’s waist and leans into her strong back.

Jaime expects the kids they’re sharing the hill with to give them strange looks, but it’s Sevenmas Eve, and they’re too busy having fun to care about two sledding adults. At least until Jaime, on what must be their dozenth trip down the hill leans too far to the side and the sled careens toward a group of kids.

Being the self-sacrificing woman that she is, Brienne throws them both off the sled and into a pile of snow.

They roll at least once. The sled goes along without them; hopefully, the kids can dodge it. When they stop, Brienne ends up on top of him. Jaime feels melted snow creeping into his jeans, but Brienne was right about the insulated leggings. Not that it matters--he’d suffer frostbite or hypothermia to keep Brienne on top of him.

“Are you...are you okay?” Brienne sounds a bit breathless. She lost her hat, and her hair is more out of her ponytail than in it.

“I wasn’t expecting us to abandon ship,” Jaime replies.

She reaches up and starts brushing snow out of Jaime’s hair. “I didn’t want to hit them.”

“Maybe you just wanted to push me into the snow and have your way with me.” He likes saying what _he_ wants by teasing Brienne and saying it’s what she wants. In his daydreams, she might be bold enough to agree with him.

In reality, Brienne’s cheeks color, and she glances away. “I--why do you keep saying shit like that?”

“Does it bother you? I can stop.”

“It doesn’t bother me. It’s just...unexpected.” When the snow is gone from Jaime’s hair, Brienne touches his cheek with her gloved fingers. “You like to tease.”

“It’s how I show affection.” The other way is by wrapping his arms around Brienne and holding her close; there’s a lot of fabric between them, but that doesn’t matter. “I’d show you a lot more, if you’d let me.”

“...More,” Brienne repeats.

Some kids are laughing and shrieking; they sound like they’re either having fun or being murdered in a slasher film. Jaime barely hears them.

 _“So_ much more, Brienne.”

It’s like they both decide on the same course at once. Their lips are only a breath apart when Galladon comes running through the snow, yelling, “So _that’s_ where you got off to!”

* * *

They always eat seafood on Sevenmas Eve.

“It’s a Tarth tradition,” Brienne says, “Maybe because we’re on an island? I’ve never thought about it too hard.”

“I think traditions are just like that sometimes.”

Jaime looks at the shrimp and scallops and white fish laid out on the counter. Brienne’s holding a stack of crumpled, slightly dirty recipes. The sight of the cluttered counter makes his chest ache; it’s so different from the sterile, industrial-looking kitchen of his childhood.

“You can grab a beer and chill on the couch,” Brienne says, “Guests don’t get chores.”

“Brienne,” he says softly.

She turns, and their faces are nearly as close as they were when they tumbled into the snow. Jaime was going to kiss her, and hope flutters in his chest that Brienne would’ve reciprocated. Right now, he just stares into her blue, blue eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Can I...help with dinner? I’ve never cooked for Sevenmas.” Jaime isn’t much of a cook, and the fine motor skills and strength in his right hand aren’t what they were. “Even just de-tailing the shrimp...or setting the table.”

A smile breaks like dawn across Brienne’s face, “You wanna make the roux? I’ll show you.”

Jaime doesn’t know what in the seven hells that means, but he’s eager to learn.

* * *

Dinner _shouldn’t_ be awkward, but now that there isn’t a shared activity like the night before, Selwyn starts asking _relationship_ questions. Some are easy to answer--personal questions about himself, how Brienne and he met and grew closer over the last year, what types of things they do for fun. Brienne’s face looks like a tomato, and Jaime fidgets like he might in a business meeting that makes him wary. None of those questions are explicitly coupley, so they manage just fine, even with Galladon sniggering into his hand. 

Then, Selwyn drops a total bomb of a question: “When did you realize you loved Brienne?”

Brienne drops her fork, and it clatters on her plate, _“Dad,_ don’t ask that, we haven’t even--”

Jaime knows the answer to this question, so a sense of calmness comes over him. “Maybe a couple weeks after we met, Brienne offered to help me grocery shop. My right wrist was in a cast and sling and was pretty useless. She stayed for dinner and cut my food up.”

Selwyn practically coos at Jaime’s response; Jaime half expects his eyes to turn into hearts.

 _“Damn,_ sis,” Galladon says, “I didn’t realize you were such good wife material. You must’ve _really_ liked Jaime.”

“I...I,” Brienne’s gone from blushing to pale as a ghost, “I was just being a good friend. I didn’t realize until a couple month ago that I--” 

It’s Selwyn who interrupts this time, “It’s okay, Brienne. I was just being a nosy dad.”

Jaime _really_ wanted to hear the rest of that sentence.

* * *

Galladon and Brienne are packing away leftovers when he nudges her with his shoulder and grins. “Sooooo, you’re _actually_ in love with Jaime, aren’t you?”

Jaime is gathering dishes from the table, far away enough that he’s out of earshot. Brienne still whispers, “Yeah, maybe a little.”

“So my accidental vagueness to Dad is a blessing in disguise.”

“I...don’t know about that.” Brienne thinks of how Jaime answered her dad’s question, how they’d woken up this morning, how intensely he’d looked at her when they fell off the sled. The conclusion she reaches is too scary to believe. “Jaime’s always been…” _A cheeky jackass. Annoying. Flirty._ “...like _that.”_

Her brother laughs, “He seemed pretty sincere, Brienne. I could practically _see_ all the names of your future kids cycling through Dad’s head.”

Brienne elbows Galladon in the ribs, “If you could keep a girlfriend for more than a few months, maybe he wouldn’t look to me for the future of our family line.”

“Don’t pin this on me,” he gestures to the doorway into the living room, “I put some mistletoe above the door to give you an advantage. I’m the _best_ big brother.”

She looks at the green sprig with it’s red berries; it looks like Galladon fixed it to the door frame with a thumbtack. Kissing someone under it was a silly, old tradition. 

“Have I ever told you that I hate you?”

“Lots and lots,” her brother replies, “Since you were old enough to say words.”

* * *

When the kitchen is more-or-less clean, Brienne lingers near the door below the mistletoe feeling pretty stupid. 

Galladon, ever helpful, goes into the livingroom and says, “Jaime, Brienne needs you in the kitchen.”

Brienne can imagine the eager way Jaime probably jumps off the couch. He’s smiling at her when he approaches the kitchen door. 

“What’s up?”

“I, um,” she places her hand on Jaime’s arm, but it doesn’t help her hammering heart or the butterflies in her stomach. “Galladon, he um--there’s this thing--”

“You’re babbling, Brienne.”

“L--Look up.” Brienne points as she speaks.

Jaime does, and his green eyes go wide before he starts laughing, “Mistletoe, Brienne? Did you lure me here on purpose?”

“No,” she lies.

“You’re trying to trick me,” Jaime's smile gets even wider, “You lured a poor, innocent man here just to steal a kiss.”

Jaime’s just giving her shit, but it still rankles Brienne a bit. She squeezes his arm. “We...we _have_ to kiss now.” Galladon has lured their father out of sight of the door.

He shrugs, “I suppose we’re all just slaves to tradition in one way or another.”

Brienne keeps her eyes open, watching Jaime’s expression, until he’s so close her vision blurs. When she closes her eyes, they’re so close she can feel Jaime’s exhale against her lips. Before her fear paralyzes her, Brienne presses her lips to Jaime’s. 

Then, her fear _does_ make her freeze. The reality of _actually_ kissing Jaime after nearly a year of daydreaming about it like a lovesick school girl is too much. His lips are dry, and Brienne feels him smile against her mouth.

“We’re not at a middle school dance, Brienne,” he teases, “You can slip me some tongue, get a bit handsy. I won’t faint from shock.”

“I hope you wouldn’t have kissed me when you were in middle school; I was a baby.”

Jaime wraps his arms around Brienne’s neck and pushes her gently against the doorframe, “What a charming way to point out my age, Brienne.”

She kisses him again, a mere peck that leaves her wanting more, “You’re so immature, I never even think about it.”

“I’m glad you value that in a man.” He rests his head against her shoulder, so his stubble scratches her skin, and he’s whispering in her ear. “And I’m glad you tricked me into standing under the mistletoe with you. Who else would I want to kiss as much as you?”

Brienne realizes, suddenly, that a lot of the things Jaime says to her mean, _I love you._

* * *

The rest of the evening is cozy. 

They watch another terrible, cliche-filled movie and hang their stockings. Brienne dashes up to her room and digs the stocking she bought for Jaime out from where it’s buried in her suitcase. There’s nothing special about the design--it’s just snowflakes and snow-covered pine trees, but it has Jaime’s name on it, just like all of theirs do.

Before Brienne hands him the stocking, she holds it behind her back and says, “This is a silly gift, but I wanted you to have it.”

When Jaime takes it from her, he stares at his name, embroidered in white shimmy thread, and looks like he’s going to cry. ”Thanks. I’ve never had one of these.” His voice breaks, but he tries to cover it with a cough. 

They hang it along the mantle next to the stocking Brienne’s had for as long as she can remember. 

It fits right in.

* * *

Much later, back in Brienne’s room, they’re both wearing new sets of pajamas.

“Another tradition?” Jaime asks. His are red and covered in a pattern of gold tinsel and brightly-colored lights.

Brienne’s own are a blue that matches her eyes and covered in snowflakes. “Yeah. We’re supposed to look presentable when the Mother comes to check and make sure we’re asleep before she delivers the gifts.”

“Or so you won’t like ragamuffins in the pictures in the morning.”

“What an old man expression,” she teases, “But I’m sure you’re right, too.”

“Who picked these out?”

“...Galladon,” Brienne sighs, but it sounds fond, “Anything dubious is his fault. It’s why he can’t keep a girlfriend.”

 _“Ouch._ Wait, does this mean you know what size clothes I wear?” Jaime likes the idea of Brienne knowing so many inconsequential, intimate details about his life.

“I folded most of your laundry for months,” Brienne answers.

Jaime tugs at his shirt to get a better look at the pattern, “I didn’t know they _made_ pajamas like this for grown men.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. I vetoed the ones with the footies.”

“Like...a onesie?”

_“Yep.”_

_“Hmmm._ Much harder to take off.”

There’s a weighty pause between them. Brienne stares at him and bites her lip. Coming from her, it’s almost coy. Meanwhile, Jaime stares at Brienne in her pajamas and imagines her not wearing them. He’s done being subtle about it, too. 

“Are you…” she pauses and glances away, “Are you thinking about what I’m thinking about?”

“Depends,” he replies, “if you’re thinking about ripping those pajamas off me and going to town.”

In very, _very_ Brienne Tarth fashion, she shows her agreement with actions instead of words. She’s across the room in barely a breath, hands buried in his hair and kissing him. There’s no subtlety in Jaime’s reactions, either. He’s wanted her for too, too long to play any games about it.

They fumble to Brienne’s childhood bed, hands sliding under clothes and tugging them off. Different pieces of festive pajamas go flying across the room. Brienne’s pants land on the cutout of Arthur Dayne. It’s not a slow or terribly suave seduction, but Jaime is eager to please Brienne in reality instead of just his fantasies. She’s better than he imagined--stronger, kinder, more expressive. 

When Brienne climbs on top and straddles him, Jaime blurts, “This is the _best_ Sevenmas gift ever.”

“What a thing to say,” she teases.

Neither of them speak for a good while after that.

After, sated and sweaty and tangled together, Jaime lifts his head from Brienne’s shoulder and says. “Why did we even _put_ those pajamas on?”

“I...I don’t know,” she laughs.

Jaime moves a bit more so he can look Brienne in the eyes; her cheeks are rosy, and her hair tie got lost somewhere. “What I said to your dad at dinner was the truth.”

“He...before he interrupted me, I was going to say the same thing.”

Brienne kisses him, and Jaime knows she’s saying _I love you_ back.

* * *

They sleep late on Sevenmas morning; this time, Brienne is curled against Jaime’s back, her arm slung over his waist.

When Jaime opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Arthur Dayne’s smiling face, and Brienne’s pajama bottoms in a heap on the floor. Of course, the cutout isn’t the only Arthur Dayne in the room--the rest are still tacked to the walls, staring at Jaime with their many, many sets of eyes.

“Brienne?” he whispers.

She wakes slowly, but eventually she opens her eyes and half sits up, peering over him, “Good morning, Jaime. Happy Sevenmas.”

“Happy Sevenmas,” Jaime replies, “Arthur Dayne got one hell of a show last night.”

Brienne blushes and vanishes under the comforter. “...Yeah, I think it’s finally time to take those down.”


End file.
